She is in a particularly hangy mood -- hands all over my body, all twenty teeth in view as she makes that face that looks kinda desperate, kinda frustrated, kinda sugar-fueled. At some point her hands wander from my chest, down to my belly -- where she gives the fat a tweak.
"Don't do that baby."
"Why nnnot," she utters, lunging at me again.
Because, I am about to say, I don't like to be reminded that my stomach is not as flat as I would like it to be. That I could stand to do a few sit-ups instead of sitting in front of a computer. That I am just plain fat.
} Insert the sound of a record scratching to a stop right here.
If I say any of the things that I am thinking at this moment, my crusade to raise the righteous babe up right may crumble. Even if I didn't have a fairly normal body -- kept fairly fit from yoga and lugging her around on the bike on trips to the store, I should say nothing of the sort. I should not plant the thought in her mind that our bodies are something to be commented upon in disgust -- whether those bodies are big or small, too light, too dark; too something, not enough something else. I may have those weak thoughts, but no use spreadin' them around. And it doesn't exactly feel good to have your fat tweaked by the sharp little nails of a four year old, but at the same time, she's not doing it to highlight the fact that said fat is present, or ugly.
So go 'head. Squeeze it.